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TO MOLDE 179
Naught is so strong as thy mountain-linked ring,
Naught is so sweet as thy summer-nights bring.
Molde, Molde,
True as a song,
Murm’ring memories throng.
Molde, Molde,
Flower-o’ergrown,
Houses and gardens where good friends wander!
Hundreds of miles away,—but I’m yonder
Mid the roses full-blown.
Strong shines the sun on that mountain-rimmed beauty,
Fast is the fight, let each man do his duty.
Friends, who your favor would never begrudge me,
Gently now judge me! —
Only with life ends the fight for the right.
Thought flees to you for a refuge in light.
Molde, Molde,
Flower-o’ergrown,
-Childhood’s memories’ throne.
Oh, may at last
In thine embrace, life’s fleeting
Conflict past,
Glad thine evening-glory greeting,
—Where life let thought awaken, —
My thought by death be taken!
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